


"What's Next For Her? God Knows."

by kittensmctavish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Non-Consensual Kissing, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Harassment, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensmctavish/pseuds/kittensmctavish
Summary: “hey eliza. is it okay if i come over? i need to talk to someone.” “of course! you okay?” “i don’t know”Originally posted to tumblr October 2, 2017.





	"What's Next For Her? God Knows."

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from my tumblr of the same name.
> 
> Major spoilers for John Carpenter's The Thing, and for the play Suddenly Last Summer by Tennessee Williams.
> 
> This fic is...a lot. I dunno.

“hey eliza. is it okay if i come over? i need to talk to someone.”

“of course! you okay?”

“i don’t know”

Eliza frowned down at her phone. Before she could reply, another text from you popped up:

“be over soon. thanks”

“okay. no problem. :) ” 

Eliza slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned her attention back to the TV screen.

“What’s going on?” She turned towards Alex. “You look worried about something, what’s up?” Eliza smiled to mask her concern, telling Alex that you would be over soon. “Do you two have a project for class that y’all forgot about?”

“No, she just said she needed to talk about something,” Eliza said.

“Is it…like…girl talk? Am I gonna have to leave?”

“Don’t be a dork,” Eliza scolded, poking the tip of Alex’s nose. “I’m sure it’ll be fine if you stay.”

“Well…at the very least, I can duck into another room while you two talk,” Alex said, reaching for the remote control to unpause Martin Sheen and John Spencer.

“Just no messing with Angie or Peggy’s stuff,” Eliza said. “AGAIN.”

“I have learned my lesson from last time, and I am a humble little Hamilton.”

“You? Humble? Heaven forbid.”

The townhouse apartments were just on the border of campus. And the dorm in which you lived was on the opposite border of campus. So it didn’t concern Eliza that she didn’t hear a knock on the door until about ten minutes after you’d texted.

“Hey!” Eliza greeted, giving you a hug. “Jeez, you’re freezing. Did you walk here?”

“Quicker than driving,” you said with a shrug.

“Not really, but come on in,” she said with a little laugh as she took your hand. She paused as you passed by the living room. “Alex, we’re in my room if you need anything.”

“Want me to save the rest of the episode for you?” Alex asked.

“Nah, I’m good,” Eliza said. “It’s just more Sorkin walk-and-talk, like every other episode.” Alex rolled his eyes, but smiled and turned back to the screen.

“Did I interrupt date night?” you asked. “I’m so sorry if I—”

“No, no, really, it’s okay,” Eliza insisted as she ushered you into her room, sitting on the bed. “Now. Tell me. What’s up.” You sat on the bed, with space between the two of you. Your back was hunched, and you played with the too-long sleeves of your sweater.

“Well…you know that guy I’ve been…sort of seeing?” you asked. Eliza nodded, smile growing at the mention.

At the beginning of the school year, you’d found your first boyfriend. The first guy who’d ever liked you romantically. He wanted to keep your relationship a secret (for reasons you’d decided not to ask about), but you couldn’t NOT tell Eliza. She was the friend you told EVERYTHING to, and had been since you two were little. So she knew. Which meant Alex, Angelica, and Peggy knew. But they were all sworn to secrecy.

“Yeah, how’d your date go? That was this week, wasn’t it?” Eliza said, leaning in closer. “Details, girl, DETAILS.”

“Yeah, it was…about an hour ago,” you said, curling more into yourself. Eliza’s smile shrunk. You finally willed yourself to look up at her. “So our dates have always been like…let’s meet up and kiss. Make out. He does like to talk, but he likes the physical aspects more. And tonight…” You shifted, wrapping your arms around your midsection, looking down. “He said he wished he could touch me. So…” Your fingers dug into the sides of your arms.

“What did he do?” Eliza said. “Did he–?”

“NO,” you exclaimed, looking up at her with wide eyes. “No, I mean…well, I let him. Touch me. Like, I didn’t say anything one way or the other, but I took off my bra from under my sweater and then his hands were under my sweater and I let him touch and kiss and…” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard, before looking up at Eliza. “I mean, isn’t that what you DO in a relationship? Aren’t you supposed to touch and enjoy being touched?”

Eliza didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to, at first. But your eyes were shining. Not with tears (actually, there wasn’t a sign of a tear to be seen). But with a slight desperation.

“Yes, you can,” she said slowly. “I mean…I can’t speak for all couples, and I won’t give you uncomfortable details…but…I mean, I’ve had moments with Alex when we get…close…and there’s something so sweet and lovely about that closeness that makes me feel…I don’t know, it’s hard to describe sometimes.”

“It’s a good feeling, though, right?” you said. “It’s supposed to be a good feeling?” Eliza opened her mouth to answer, but you continued, a bit frantic. “Because all I feel is dirty and wrong and…” You faltered for words.

“Did he pressure you into it?” Eliza asked. “Has he been?”

“No…I don’t think so.”

“And…he got the okay from you before putting his hands on you?”

“I let him, Eliza, so…I mean, yeah, I guess.”

“Did you let him because you wanted him to touch you?”

There was a long pause before you answered.

“I let him because I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in a relationship,” you finally said. “Because…he’s the first guy to ever like me, and I like him so much it’s stupid, and I want him to stay with me, and letting him touch me would mean he would stay, and everything would be okay. And he was happy. He was so fucking elated I was letting him do this. And I thought, okay, maybe if I get used to his hands, then it’ll feel good. I mean…no one’s ever felt me up before, so it’s just something new I’m not used to.”

“…that doesn’t really answer my question, sweetheart,” Eliza said. “Did you WANT to be touched by him?”

Another long pause. Even without words, the pause seemed to give Eliza the answer she was looking for.

“I gave him consent, Eliza. So why do I still feel used?”

You said this so simply, so meekly, so plaintively, that Eliza’s heart shattered a little for yours. She wrapped an arm around your hunched shoulders and drew you into her. You didn’t return the gesture, but allowed her to hug you.

“Don’t EVER feel like you need to make yourself uncomfortable to keep someone,” Eliza whispered. “If they really like you, it won’t be just because of the physical aspect. It’ll be because they like everything about you, no matter what.”

You nodded against her shoulder.

“Does it get better?” you asked. “Like…will I get used to it?”

“That’s not something you should GET USED to,” Eliza said. “That’s something you should WANT. There’s a difference.” She pulled away and took your face in her hands. “I want you to promise me that you won’t let him touch you like that again unless you want him to.” You stared at her, eyes disconcertingly blank. “Promise?” After a while, you nodded. She smiled. She wasn’t entirely convinced, but she wouldn’t let you know that. “Okay.” She let your face go.

“Sorry to bug you with something so—”

“If you say this isn’t important, I’m going to get mad,” Eliza said fiercely. “You are always important to me.” You looked down.

“Thanks, Eliza.”

She hugged you again, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I think I’m going to go back to my dorm. Take a shower. I still feel…”

“Want Alex to walk you over?”

“That’s okay.”

You stood up and walked out of Eliza’s room before she did. She quickly followed you, catching up as you both passed the living room. As you did, Alex stood up.

“Heading out?” Alex asked you.

“Yeah.”

“Cool, I’ll walk you back.”

“Alex, you really don’t have to.”

“Nah, I don’t mind,” he said, pulling on his coat. “Besides, I gotta bug Laurens about something because he’s not getting the message via text, so I’m heading that way anyway.” He walked over to Eliza and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll be back in thirty.” Eliza smiled at him as he escorted you out the door.

“So…how are your classes?” Alex asked. “Outside of communications?”

“Fine,” you said with a shrug. “Speaking of comm, what do you think of that speech project we’ve got coming up?”

“Ugh, so many topics to choose from, where do you start?”

“Well, your MAIN concern should be having too much to speak about,” you said, nudging his shoulder as the two of you walked.

“You wound me.”

“I’m just saying what Professor Washington said,” you said, all innocence. Alex nudged you back. A comfortable silence fell for a while, as the two of you passed the clock tower in the center of campus.

“So…I didn’t mean to be nosy, but…” Alex began, taking a deep breath. “I heard some of what you were telling Eliza.” You stopped. Alex, a few paces ahead of you, stopped and turned. Your expression was colder than the air outside. “It’s just, your voice rose a bit and I got concerned, so I stood by the door a little bit.”

“Alex—”

“I know, I know, it’s none of my business,” he said, holding a hand up to defend himself. “It’s just…Eliza thinks the world of you. And so do I. And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” you said shortly, walking past him, knocking into his shoulder in the process; you heard his footfall stumble. “And you’re right. It really IS none of your business.”

Alex called your name as he jogged to catch up to you. You stopped only when he’d caught your arm, and you yanked it away roughly.

“Eliza and I…we just don’t want you to get hurt,” he finally said. “If he ever…steps out of line or does anything he shouldn’t…I will more than happily kick his ass on your behalf. I mean he’s IN Comm class with us; I’ll have more than enough opportunity.”

“I can handle it, Alex,” you said.

“Christ, do you HEAR yourself?” Alex said, wincing at his tone. This was the thing he should be saying to Jefferson, in the midst of one of their debates, when trying to knock some sense into the magenta-wearing fuck. “You make it sound like an ordeal, and…that’s not how a relationship should be.”

“…you’re right. That came out wrong,” you finally said, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth. “He hasn’t hurt me. He never would. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. More than fine, really. This was just a hiccup.” 

Alex wasn’t convinced, you could tell. But he said nothing, and continued to walk next to you until you were both at the entrance to your dorm building.

“Thanks for walking me back,” you said. “Even though you really didn’t have to.”

“Like I said, I gotta go smack some sense into Laurens literally since trying to smack sense into him metaphorically wasn’t working,” Alex said. You giggled at that, which lifted Alex’s heart a bit. “Hey, you cool if I give you a hug?”

“Yeah, of course,” you said, as if it wasn’t the stupidest question Alex had ever asked you. (He’d definitely asked you stupider questions in the past, and was sure to ask many more of them in the future.) But he pulled you in for a hug, which you returned. You felt his lips press against your temple, where Eliza’s had minutes earlier.

“I’m sorry if it seemed like I got mad before,” he said, “and I’m sorry for eavesdropping.” He pulled away from the hug. “But like I said…if you ever need me to kick his ass—”

“That won’t be necessary, really,” you said. “But thank you.”

“…talk to him?” Alex said before he could help himself. “Like, about what makes you comfortable and what doesn’t. Like, set up parameters. Eliza and I have on some stuff. Communication is key.”

“I will next time I see him.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Good night, Alex. Don’t be too harsh on John.”

“…that I can’t promise. But good night.”

You rolled your eyes as you opened the door to the dorm building. But you turned back to Alex to smile at him and wave as the door closed.

***

As it turned out, there was no need to talk to your “boyfriend” about parameters. Because he was no longer talking to you.

It was gradual. You hadn’t noticed it at first, that he hadn’t responded to your message. That he wouldn’t stay to talk to you after Communications class. That he hadn’t invited you over again, to talk or kiss or otherwise. Actually, it seemed like he was going out of his way to avoid you, especially after class.

So a week after this odd behavior, you sent him a follow-up message to your initial message, asking if the two of you were still a couple.

Minutes after that, he sent you a message stating that he’d never been aware that you WERE a couple.

And you found yourself back in the Schuyler sisters’ townhouse, curled up on the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest, crying.

They had all listened to your story with different expressions. Eliza looked and felt helpless, to see you hurting so much and not knowing what exactly to do. Peggy’s brow was furrowed with worry, mostly about your well-being. And Angelica…she looked like she was ready to murder the entire fucking world.

“He said he wasn’t aware that I liked him that much, and he was sorry he led me on,” you said between sobbing jags. “And I had to ask him if he’d ever liked me as much as I liked him. And he said it was difficult to say, to put things in black and white like that.”

“How does he not KNOW?” Peggy asked, incredulous.

“That’s what I asked,” you said. “And he said, well fine, if I was going to INSIST on a black-and-white answer, then no. He never liked me like that.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Angelica growled. “I am actually going to kill him.”

“Angie,” Eliza soothed, one hand reaching for her sister’s arm and the other stroked your hair.

“I should’ve known,” you muttered. “He never actually said it, you know that? Just…I asked ‘do you really like me?’ and he would say ‘yes, I do’ or “you KNOW how I feel about you’ or something like that. But never ‘yes, I like you. I like you so much’.”

“But what about…?” Eliza didn’t dare finish her question.

“I asked him about that,” you said, knowing what she was referencing. “And I told him if I’d known he never liked me, I’d never have let him get under my shirt. His response? He thought I was ‘just being flirty’.” Angelica slammed her hand down on the coffee table, making you jump

“I AM GOING TO KILL THIS MOTHERFUCKER.”

“Angie!”

“I’MA GO ‘HARD CANDY’ ON HIS DICK.”

“No, Angelica, please,” you said, reaching for her hand. “It was my fault.”

“How was any of this your fault?” Angelica asked, incredulous.

“Because I should have known better!” you wailed. “I shouldn’t have been so stupid, to think someone actually liked me.”

“Honey, he led you on,” Peggy said, reaching for your hand. “He admitted as much. And yeah, he’s saying he wasn’t aware, but…girl, if you looked at him the way your eyes got whenever you talked about him, then he’s the stupid one for not seeing it.”

“And if he couldn’t like you for who you are, if he couldn’t see that,” Eliza added, “then he’s DEFINITELY stupid. You are not.”

“But…”

“I know you might feel stupid,” Angelica said, sitting down, much calmer than earlier. “Because you fell for him. But guys like him…” She bit her lip before continuing. “He says he wasn’t aware. And I don’t know the guy well, just seen him in passing in one of my classes. But I don’t buy it for a second. I think he knew EXACTLY what he was doing, leading you on.”

“Angelica!” Eliza was aghast at her sister’s bluntness.

“But he said he was sorry,” you said. “And he hoped we could still be friends.”

“Do you want to be?” Peggy asked. “After…all this, do you really want to still be friends with him?”

“I mean…I liked talking to him. We had a lot in common.” You tightened your grip on the pillow. “I mean, obviously, right now, no, I don’t want to be friends with him.”

“Good,” Angelica said. “He doesn’t deserve it. Or you. You are too fucking good for him.”

“I’m really not. I don’t think I’m good enough for anyone.” You hid your face as you began to cry again.

“Sweetie…” Eliza cooed as she wiped your tears away.

“He told me he couldn’t believe I’d never been kissed before,” you wept. “That he’d never stop kissing me, if he could.”

“Are you really sure you don’t me to ‘Hard Candy’ this guy?” Angelica said.

“Angie, mental torture and faking castration is really not the best way to resolve things,” Peggy hissed.

“Well, can we WATCH ‘Hard Candy’ anyway?” Angelica asked. “What cheers ME up after hearing some of the bullshit men pull is watching an awful man get what’s coming to him. Leaves me so fucking satisfied.” You laughed in spite of your tears.

“I have a good idea,” Eliza said, tone hushed as she spoke into your ear. “Screenshot every nice thing he ever said to you. We print them out. And we burn them.” You looked up at her. “One of the neighbors down the street has a bonfire pit. Said we could use it whenever it was needed. And right now, it’s definitely needed.”

You watched his sentiments burn with a bittersweet feeling, later that night. Standing next to Eliza, holding her hand, leaning on her shoulder, helped a little. She said nothing. You said nothing. Just watched him burn.

It would get better. It had to.

***

A week later, you were at the Schuyler sisters’ townhouse again, but not alone. “The squad” was there, gathered for a movie night, for commiserating about classes and projects, for (some) underage drinking, for discussions about the upcoming Winter Ball, for clarifications on your upcoming theatre class presentation.

Eliza watched you from the corner if her eye, next to you on the couch as the movie played (John Carpenter’s “The Thing”, to get everyone in the winter mood). You were actually laughing your ass off as Lafayette, Hercules, and Laurens all flipped their shit over some of the bigger scares (especially when Lafayette would curse in French, and when Hercules sent a bowl of popcorn flying). Alex’s arm was snugly around Eliza’s shoulder, and his fingertips would brush against your shoulder every now and again, not that you seemed to notice. Eliza did, though, and gave him a little knowing look every time he did, as though it were a game.

It was during the blood test scene when Eliza noticed you’d taken your phone out. It was a fleeting notice, as she was mostly engrossed in the tense scene of the film playing out before her. She didn’t feel your posture stiffen next to hers, or hear your breath hitch. Not until the blood in one of the petri dishes shrieked and flinched away from the hot needle, and your phone went flying in the air.

“Whoa, shit!” Laurens swerved to avoid getting brained in the head by the flying electronic device.

“Sorry, sorry,” you whispered, voice choked, quickly retrieving your phone.

“You okay?” Eliza asked as you sat back down. You didn’t answer, focused on typing something. Eliza turned back to the screen as Palmer-Thing began to morph into something inhuman and all the other men freaked out and Kurt Russell’s hair and beard remained amazing. But she kept turning back to look at you. How your hands shook as your typed. How you seemed to tremble all over. How, when you seemed to be done typing, you set your phone down and brought your hands to your face, pressing your fingers to your eyes, as though willing yourself not to cry. She tried to say your name, quietly. You couldn’t hear her. Not over the din of the film, over the shrieks of Lafayette and Hercules, over Peggy screaming “Windows, you useless fuck!” at the screen (much to the delight of Laurens).

Alex caught on to something not being right; Eliza could feel his body shift towards her, towards where she was looking. The both of them watched you pick up your phone at some notification. Read the screen with frantic, tear-filled eyes. Eliza repeated your name, a little louder.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. You said nothing, but thrust your phone in front of her face after a few finger presses to a correct screen. She took it to better look at what had upset you.

And she saw the Facebook notification that HE was in a relationship with another woman.

“Shit,” Alex whispered next to her. Eliza looked at you, face covered, shoulders shaking.

“Oh sweetheart,” she began to say, cut off by a watery gasp from you. One that seemed to catch the attention of the others, as the movie scene had quieted with the destruction of the Palmer-Thing. You reached out for your phone and pressed your finger to the screen a few times before handing it back to Eliza. She quickly scrolled through your now-open Messenger feed and skimmed the contents she’d indicated.

Your complete and utter hurt and shock. Your questions, why, how long, why didn’t he tell you, did this happen when you thought you and him were a thing, WHY. And his curt, unapologetic “apologies”. Would it have been better if he’d told you from the beginning, in conjunction with the fact that he’d never liked you? Couldn’t you understand how he felt about this girl, how he couldn’t help falling for her, how head over heels he was for her, how she was such a light in his life? Couldn’t you please just calm down and be a rational person and stop overexaggerating things?

She’d barely finished reading the words. She was not aware of everyone asking you if you were okay until you flung yourself up away from the couch, making a dash for the bathroom. Eliza instantly jumped up to follow you, your phone left on the couch.

Alex picked up your phone and scanned the remaining crowd. Lafayette, Laurens, and Hercules wore faces of confusion and concern. Angelica and Peggy also seemed concerned, but their looks seemed a little more knowing. Alex looked at the screen, at the messages that caused such violent reactions in you and Eliza.

“…motherfucker.”

“What is it?” Lafayette asked.

“Is everything okay?” Laurens asked.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Hercules asked.

“What did he do?” Peggy’s questions caused heads to spin in her direction.

“This,” Angelica said grimly, showing her own phone to Peggy, whose jaw dropped. “Note the relationship status.”

“Son of a BITCH.” Peggy left in the direction of the bathroom.

“It’s worse, Ang,” Alex muttered, your phone clutched tightly in his fist.

Questions filled the room, from the three boys sitting on the floor. Just what was going on, what happened to you, who was HE, what did a relationship status have to do with anything.

“It’s not my place to say,” Alex finally said. “If she wants everyone to know, she’ll tell it.”

“She does,” Peggy said, coming back into the living room. “I told her everyone was worried and asked if it was okay with I gave them basic details. She said that was fine.”

The gist was: you’d met a guy. You’d thought you were dating. He didn’t. One week after it fell apart, he announced his relationship with another woman. Nothing about the physical nature of the relationship, and how that had made you feel. No detailed descriptions of things he’d said to you. But enough.

Enough for Hercules to ball his hands into fists, with some urge to hit something. Enough for Laurens to look down and clench his teeth, as though fighting back an urge to be sick. Enough for Lafayette to release a string of French that, even of the words weren’t understood, the meaning behind them – the bile – was clear.

Any other relating of thought that could have occurred was halted by your entrance back into the living room, supported by Eliza.

“I’m fine,” you said, voice devoid of any emotion.

“You are?” Hercules asked.

“No,” you said bluntly. “But I’m not crying anymore.”

“The man is not worth your tears,” Angelica spat and she walked over to give you a hug. She was followed by Peggy, and would have been followed by everyone else had you not shrugged everyone away.

“I just…want to go back to my dorm, take a long shower, and sleep for…like, five days,” you insisted, folding your arms and hunching into yourself.

“I swear, the moment I see this guy, I’m gonna give him—” Hercules began.

“NO.” You pointed a finger at him as your voice made him flinch. “You don’t do a damn thing. Nobody does. Nobody knew about our…” You couldn’t say “relationship”. So you didn’t. “He’s not worth it.”

“But—” Lafayette began to speak.

“But nothing,” you said. “I was stupid. That’s all there is to it. Just let me feel stupid and heartbroken and sick with myself, okay?”

There was a knock on the door. Everyone turned at the sound. Eliza walked over to answer it. On the other side was Aaron Burr, one of the other students who lived in the townhouse apartments, and frenemy of Alex, Lafayette, Hercules, and Laurens (and also your scene partner for your theatre class).

“Could you keep the noise down in here?” Aaron asked. “Some of us are trying to study.”

“In case you couldn’t TELL, Aaron,” Angelica began, making a beeline for him, “we were—”

“Watching a horror film,” you interrupted, cutting Angelica off physically and verbally. “You know…volume too loud, jump scares too effective, screams and all…we’re sorry. Movie’s almost over and we can choose something quieter next.”

Aaron didn’t look quite convinced. He looked past your shoulder at the TV screen. He faintly heard Kurt Russell scream “Yeah, FUCK YOU TOO!” as he threw a Molotov cocktail at a Thing.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, indicating the redness of your eyes. You never talked to him much outside of theatre class and working on the scene

“Just got a little too freaked out by a scene,” you said with a shrug. “I’m fine. We’ll keep it down. Sorry.”

“That would be appreciated,” Aaron said, moving to close the door, before peeking his head in again. “Good choice in film, by the way.” He closed the door.

“Well, Burr likes ‘The Thing’,” Alex sighed. “That makes it slightly less enjoyable.”

“Really? I heard Jefferson hates it,” Laurens piped in.

“Then it is the greatest film ever committed to celluloid,” Alex declared. You rolled your eyes. The boys detested no one more than Thomas Jefferson (except maybe, for right now, your not-really-an-ex-boyfriend).

“Okay, I’m heading out,” you whispered to Eliza as you walked over to the couch to grab your things.

“Let someone walk you home,” Eliza pleaded as you took your phone from Alex.

“I really just want to be alone—”

“I will,” Peggy and Laurens both said at once.

“Please,” Eliza repeated. “Just in case you change your mind about wanting to be alone. Then someone’s right there with you.”

“…fine,” you said, shrugging your coat on and making a beeline for the door. By the time Peggy and Laurens managed to do the same, you were in the lobby of the apartment building getting ready to walk out. You didn’t halt as they called your name. Your hand was on the door handle when another hand wrapped around your free one.

“Please don’t,” you snapped, yanking your hand away.

“Sorry.” It was Peggy. She sounded hurt. You turned to give her an apologetic look.

“I’m just…I want to keep it together until I’m in private,” you said. Peggy nodded.

“You sure you want to be by yourself to—” Laurens began.

“I’m embarrassed enough as it is,” you said, turning back towards the front door to open it. But your fingertips had just barely brushed the handle when the door was being flung open, and you couldn’t help but let out a shriek.”

“…um…hello to you, too.”

“Jesus TAPDANCING Christ, Thomas, NOT okay,” you gasped, hand clutched over your chest as Laurens walked over to physically support you.

“Hey, how was I to know you were on the other side of the door?” Thomas Jefferson said, shrugging.

“We’re sorry for startling you,” James Madison said quietly from behind Jefferson.

“In her defense, Jefferson, your face DOES have that effect on people,” Laurens said, bite to his voice.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve run away shrieking from your fool ass,” Peggy added as she walked up to join you and Laurens.

“Ha ha ha, fuck you both very much,” Jefferson said, overly false smile adorning his face.

“Did we really scare you, though?” Madison asked you. “You look a little…shook.”

“I’m fine, James,” you said, waving it off. “We were watching a horror movie and I’m just a little jumpy.”

“You sure?” Jefferson seemed to have noticed more of your distress. “Your eyes are red like you’ve been—” 

“I’m FINE,” you snapped. “CHRIST, I just want everyone to leave me the fuck ALONE and stop ASKING me that!”

“Okay, sorry,” Jefferson said, backing off with an affronted look. “Excuse me for showing concern.”

“Is Aaron upstairs?” Madison asked Peggy, as though to change the subject.

“Yeah, he told us to keep it down,” Peggy said.

“Thank you.” Madison took Jefferson’s arm. “Come on, Thomas, we gotta talk to him about our Comm projects.”

“Can’t wait to see yours!” Thomas called after you as they walked towards the staircase. “Good ni-ight!”

“Fuck yo-ou!” Laurens called back, with the same tone and inflection Jefferson had used. Peggy giggled at the sass radiating off of Laurens.

As you walked outside, the wind bit through your skin, stinging your eyes, making you blink fast and tear up from the cold.

“I don’t see how you don’t NOT tolerate that fucker in classes,” Laurens grumbled to you, still irked by Jefferson’s antics.

“Breaking out the double negatives. Nice.” Laurens directed his remaining sass in your direction at your remark. “But nah, in Comm, we basically don’t interact much. I mostly just get SOME shit from him because I’m friends with Alex.” You shrugged. “And James isn’t bad.”

“I guess not, but he’s besties with Jefferson, and that’s just terrible.”

“Yeah, all interactions in class are basically: Alex and Thomas argue about something trivial. James gives me a look that reads ‘these two, am I right?’ And I give him the same look. Like…yeah, our friends suck and fight, but what are we gonna do?” You looked away from him. “Besides…there’s worse people.”

The walk grew quiet as you passed the bell tower. Passed the halfway mark. You felt your phone buzz, and retrieved it from your coat pocket. Text notifications from Eliza and Angelica. “Christ, Pegs, your sisters…”

“They’re worried about you,” Peggy said, reading the notifications over your shoulder. “We all are.”

“I’m…” You wanted to keep saying “I’m fine”. Like, if you said it enough times, you could convince yourself that you were. “…Peggy, why wasn’t I enough? What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Peggy said. “He’s the one who did.”

“But…I mean, I let him…” You blushed, remembering Laurens was there. He thankfully did not ask. You moved closer to Peggy to whisper to her. “Maybe if I had let him do more—”

“Girl, no.” Peggy stopped to look at you. “Is that REALLY what you would have wanted?” You bit your lip and looked down. Your refusal to answer was just as good as a “no”. “There should be no ‘let him do’ about it. That is NOT okay.”

“I know, I know…I’m stupid, sorry,” you said.

“You’re not.”

“Still feel it. Probably always will.”

“…I can stay with you tonight if you need it.”

“No, I just…want to feel stupid by myself.”

Peggy nodded. You could tell she wanted to keep an eye on you. But she didn’t try to sway you to let her stay.

When you reached your dorm, you were preparing to go right in without saying a good night, when Laurens said your name. Before you’d fully turned around, his arms were around you. You were too taken aback to return the hug.

“I don’t know everything that happened, but…I’m here for you,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, John,” you said, still unmoving as he let go of you.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“I will let you know,” you finished. “For now, nothing. But thank you.”

You went inside without a goodbye. You took a shower that was maybe too hot, water stinging your skin a bit too raw, scrubbing away at your body a bit too hard. You very simply acknowledged the deluge of messages everyone had sent you (“Fine.” “Okay.” “Thanks.” “Night.”) When you laid down to go to sleep, everything felt heavy and crushing.

***

You woke up to a few things. Well, a squillion concerned texts from Eliza, along with a few other things.

John Laurens had drawn you a turtle. Like, if Pusheen was a turtle instead of a cat, that’s basically what John drew for you. It was accompanied with some words of encouragement.

Angelica had made the following post to her Facebook feed: “I hope she dumps you. Not because you deserve to be alone. But because I want her to get away from you before she learns just how awful you truly are. #vaguepost (if you can read this, it’s not about you)”

Meanwhile, Alex, at 4:27 in the morning, had posted to his Facebook feed: “The play’s the thing/wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.” –Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2”

That last instance wasn’t significant at first glance. And actually, it wasn’t out of place for Alex; his feed was peppered with quotes from books, plays, TV shows, at any and all hours of the day, sometimes in reference to something he was working on for class, other times simply because he liked the quote.

It wasn’t until your first class of the day that the significance would hit.

***

In Communications class, presentations were continuing. Professor Washington had handed out a list of topics for everyone to choose from, and each student was to give a ten-minute presentation (with visual aids) on said topic.

You’d given your presentation last week. Thank Christ. Because after everything that had happened with HIM in the past 24 hours, there was no way you could stand up in front of a class that included him and speak as though nothing was wrong. So all you had to do was sit in your designated spot in the front row and listen and sometimes take notes.

James Madison was one of the first presenters. You’d never been sure through class if he was nervous to speak in front of people, or if he was just always naturally soft-spoken, from the few times you’d interacted with him. But you always tried to give him an encouraging smile if he ever glanced your way and looked particularly off his game, just to see if it helped.

Thomas Jefferson, through the whole of the class, chose divisive topics on which to speak. You had a suspicion that he chose some of them not because he believed in what he was saying, but because he wanted to push Alex’s buttons. Today was no different, with his presentation being on the Oxfordian theory. As he spoke about Shakespeare not actually writing Shakespeare, you could feel Alex seething next to you. When you glanced at him, you expected to see him poised to jump out of his chair to give Jefferson what for; however, he didn’t even seem focused on Jefferson. Rather, he was scribbling furiously on a nearly full sheet of paper. Possibly last-minute notes for his presentation coming up.

Your hunch appeared to be correct, as he stood up to prepare his presentation, while Professor Washington gave Jefferson some cursory comments regarding the Oxfordian theory and what research Jefferson had done. You couldn’t help but laugh when Professor Washington suggested Jefferson show his presentation to your theatre professor and gauge his reaction, because you would pay good money to see that (your theatre professor’s head explode, that is).

“Before I begin my presentation,” Alex started, once Jefferson had sat down, “I want to give a warning. My topic is…controversial. And triggering. If anyone begins to feel uncomfortable at what I’m going to say, if you need to leave, that is fine with me…if it’s okay with you, Professor.” He turned his head in the direction of the professor.

“Let’s see what your topic is and go from there,” Professor Washington said. Alex nodded and opened up the Powerpoint he’d put together.

“Sexual Assault on College Campuses,” Alex read the introductory slide.

You tensed.

You couldn’t remember if you and Alex had ever discussed what topics you’d chosen. You couldn’t remember if Alex had ever mentioned what topic he’d chosen. You couldn’t remember if he’d chosen this topic from the get-go, or if he’d changed it last minute given recent events.

It certainly made sense if it was the former; his research seemed impeccable and thorough, citing various credible sources without everything sounded like a boring clinical mess.

But then he got to the end. Where he spoke about various forms of assault. And he said:

“But sometimes…sometimes assault isn’t so direct and violent. Sometimes it is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It’s more devious. Seems more innocent until you peel off the layers until you get to the core.”

And you knew…you KNEW…

“‘If you REALLY liked me, you would let me touch you.’ Lines like this can lead to assault without the victim realizing what it is at first. It pushes pressure on to the victim, and makes them think they HAVE to participate in sexual contact, even if they don’t really want it. And then they’ll be confused and hurt when their partner, their beloved – actually their abuser – suddenly grows cold. Breaks things off. Says ‘oh, I never actually liked you. I thought by letting me cop a feel, you were just flirting. But hey, thanks for letting me get to second base, that was fun. For me, anyway.’ And then they move on. To the next ‘girlfriend’. To the next victim.”

The entire time Alex spoke this, his eyes were focused on something…someone…near the back of the room.

God damn him. God DAMN him.

When you heard a chair clatter, a body shuffle, and Professor Washington say HIS name, you knew you weren’t the only one thinking this.

“I’m sorry. Did my comments make you uncomfortable?” Alex’s face remained blank, his eyes full of an innocence that didn’t fool you. Steps approached you. Someone slammed hard into your shoulder as he passed and approached Alex.

“What did she tell you?” he hissed in Alex’s face. “What did that bitch tell you?” Professor Washington was repeating his name and telling him to sit back down, while some others made noises of confusion and shock. When Alex didn’t respond, he leaned in closer to Alex. “I know you’re friends with her, and let me tell you right now – she didn’t do ANYTHING she didn’t want to…got it?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Alex said. “I was just presenting a hypothetical situation. Why? Is there something you’d like to share with–?”

Gasps filled the room as Alex found himself pushed up against the wall by your…you steeled yourself for the admission to yourself…abuser. Professor Washington called his name out, followed by “In my office, NOW.”

Alex had not flinched, nor had he shown any attempt to retaliate or defend himself. He just stared at him.

When he let Alex go, he turned to look in your direction. Just for a moment, but long enough. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. To glare at him. To send him every shred of hate you had in your hollow heart.

(It was a look, Alex would tell you many years later, that could have turned anyone to stone.)

If it threw him off, he didn’t show it. Just stalked out of the room. Professor Washington gave quick announcement that class would end early for the day, before following your abuse out of the classroom to the office, where who knew what would happen.

You felt eyes on you. Some of your classmates were smart; they could put two and two together. Figure out what happened. Well…not EVERYTHING that happened, but enough to know that SOMETHING had happened, and you were involved.

You broke the spell by standing up and grabbing your bag in one fell swoop before rushing out of the classroom. You stormed through the halls of the communications building, and momentarily, Alex’s footfall and calling of your name soon followed. You whirled on him, sending him a new wave of hate you hadn’t known had risen within you.

“Why?” you hissed. “Why the FUCK would you do that?”

“I wanted to—”

“I told you NOT to, I told EVERYONE not to, to just leave it the fuck alone!” you continued. “Now people KNOW.”

“He can’t get away with what he did to you!” Alex snapped. “It’s not right! I had to do SOMETHING.”

“Really, HAMLET?” Alex flinched at the callback to his little Facebook theatricality.

“You could at least report him—”

“It’s his word against mine, Alex!”

“That doesn’t MEAN fucking ANYTHING!”

“Do you think I WANT to? That I WANT people to know I was stupid and fell for his tricks? Do you think I want that getting around, that I want everyone looking at me with pity? Disgust? Do you think I want to be known as the VICTIM? Do you think I want to ADMIT that? …do you know how hard it is to admit that to myself?”

Alex had the good common sense to look ashamed of himself for that moment, after that last faltering question. At how your voice broke, at the same time you felt something inside you break.

“You have people who would stand by you,” Alex finally said. “Who would believe you, defend you, people who care about you, people who LOVE you.”

In any other context, that last confession-of-sorts could have knocked a person to their feet. Not now.

“If you really love me,” you said voice low and venomous, “if you REALLY care about me…you’ll leave me the fuck alone, Alexander.”

You turned away from him and made your mad dash to…who knew where. Both you and Alex unaware of two people who’d caught on the quickest in the classroom. Who’d just witnessed the exchange from great distance.

***

Later that morning, Professor Washington sent you an email, asking about your well-being. He’d noticed you seemed a bit uncomfortable near the end of Alex’s presentation, and he wanted to make sure you were okay, and if you ever needed to talk, his office was open. You emailed back, thanking him for his concern, but you were fine. Nothing to report.

Eliza sent you a long message, apologizing on Alexander’s behalf. She’d known he’d pulled an all-nighter the night before (really, Alexander and all-nighters weren’t uncommon…bedfellows, for lack of a less contradictory term), but she hadn’t known why. When he’d tried to defend himself, she’d given him a good scolding – just THINK for one damn second, about how what he did made YOU feel. Instead of focusing so much on exacting a revenge you didn’t even want in the first place.

Eliza understood what you meant by needing space. That if Alex really cared, he’d leave you alone. If that same rule applied to her (because she loved you…maybe even more than she loved Alex sometimes, she’d admitted once when very drunk), then she would give you whatever distance you needed.

Lafayette and Hercules sent you a message, too, but relating not at all to what had gone down. They were still puzzled by the end of “The Thing” (partly from being distracted by other goings-on the night before, but also partly due to the film itself), and were hoping you could meet them for lunch and help them parse it out.

***

“So, I am still not understanding,” Lafayette said as he tore a roll in half. “Is the Thing dead at the end?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be ambiguous,” you said before you took a bite of soup.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Hercules said. “Seems like a yes.”

“Because the only ones left are Kurt Russell and…the one who is not Kurt Russell,” Lafayette continued.

“Keith David,” you piped in.

“Oui, him. So, are they both going to die? Do they get rescued?” You shrugged. “You are being maddeningly vague, mon ami.”

“Like I said, it’s supposed to be ambiguous,” you repeated.

“And what do you mean by that—oh.” Hercules’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, emphasis. Emphasis, Lafayette.” You suppressed a smirk behind your soup spoon.

“So, you mean one of them is the Thing, non?”

“Maybe.”

Lafayette threw his roll down on his plate in frustration, muttering things in rapid French under his breath.

“Okay, so,” you began to explain. “The ending is bleak. Macready and Childs are all alone, no supplies, their work station in flames around them. It’s Antarctica. It’s cold. Everyone else was killed by the Thing, or the Thing assimilated their form and was then destroyed. They’re both exhausted and in no shape to fight. One of them could be the Thing, both of them could be, or neither of them are.”

“So…that is the point of the ending?” Hercules asked. “That everything sucks?”

“When I say it’s MEANT to be ambiguous, I mean it APPEARS that way, but…” You folded your arms on the table and leaned in. “It may not be as ambiguous as it appears to be.”

“How do you mean?”

“So, you know how when it’s super cold outside, you can see your breath fog up?” Hercules and Lafayette nodded. “Well, you can see Macready’s breath fogging up outside…but not Childs’s breath. Meaning Childs is the Thing.” Hercules’s eyes widened more if that was possible. Lafayette pushed himself away from the table and ran hands through his hair.

“Mon dieu,” he breathed.

“That’s some good shit right there,” Hercules chuckled.

“It’s just a theory and there’s additional evidence both for and against it, but I stand by that one,” you said, laughing a little at their expressions. “I like the idea of the ending not being as ambiguous as everyone assumes it is.”

“Regardless of which ending is true, everything sucks for Kurt Russell regardless,” Hercules commented.

“Except for his hair,” Lafayette added. “His hair is almost as glorious as mine.”

“Well, he’s also got that kickass beard, so I think he wins,” you said nonchalantly. Lafayette glared at you.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” he quoted.

You began to laugh, before you heard another laugh. Loud. Somewhat mocking. You looked over Lafayette’s shoulder.

A few tables away was him. With one of his friends. They were laughing hard – derisively – about something…someone? Maybe you (you feared)?

Then they glanced in your direction. Their terrible smiles grew with their laughter. And you knew.

Lafayette frowned (from your facial expression? Maybe from Hercules, whom you heard growl quietly next to you) and looked over his shoulder.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Hercules whispered to you. Lafayette’s head whirled back around at you. “The guy who–?”

“Yes, please, just ignore them,” you said quietly to the both of them, suddenly intent on your salad.

“But—”

“Don’t make a scene.” You stabbed at lettuce leaves with your fork.

“They are clearly laughing at—”

You threw your fork down on your tray.

“No,” you demanded. Lafayette jumped a little in his chair, and you felt Hercules inch away from you the slightest bit. You felt your face heat up a bit as you picked up your fork again. “Enough’s been done today, and I’m not speaking to Alex as a result. Don’t make me do the same to you.”

“…okay.”

Lunch continued for a while in silence, you glancing up in his direction every now and again, always trying to keep your eyes in a glaring fashion when you did. Sometimes, his voice and his friend’s voice carried just enough for them to hit your ears, just bits of words. Lafayette and Hercules could hear them, too, you knew, but mentally willed them not to do anything.

“…not my fault…” “…she deserved it…” “…nasty…piece of work…”

You grabbed Hercules’ arm to prevent him from getting up.

“Hercules, no.”

“But—”

“That is what he wants,” you said. “He wants a scene. He’s trying to goad a reaction. Do not let him have the satisfaction.” Hercules opened his mouth to argue, but you gave him a pointed look, and he turned back towards his food.

You were only faintly aware, the whole time, that at some point, Jefferson and Madison had entered the dining hall and passed by the table to go get some food. Had probably seen you and Hercules and Lafayette at one table, him and his friend at the other a few tables down.

You didn’t think much of this.

That is, until you heard a clatter, the clank of a chair, and an angry shout. On instinct, your head shot up (as it would with any sudden, loud noise).

When you looked up, he was COVERED in macaroni and cheese, with Jefferson standing behind him.

“Oh, god, I am SO sorry,” Jefferson began to apologize. “I didn’t—the chair leg over here was sticking out, I didn’t see it and tripped, I just—” He stepped to the other side of him in a seeming attempt to grab napkins. As he did, Madison stepped in, shuffling through the tables. He made an awkward side-step, as though to avoid the tray that Jefferson had seemingly dropped…only for the same thing to happen again

“Oh my GOD,” was the cry of your abuser as a second plate of macaroni and cheese was spilled on to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, man, I was just trying to avoid—” Madison began.

“You ASSHOLES!” He stood up, causing cheese-laden pasta to fall on to his friend, who also whined.

“Hey, we said we were SORRY,” Jefferson said, holding his hands up in defense. “We didn’t MEAN to trip over that chair leg that was sticking out.”

He didn’t say anything. He just shoved by Jefferson (whose magenta sweatshirt remained immaculate) and stormed out of the dining hall. His friend soon followed (after huffily snatching some napkins out of Madison’s offering hand).

“Well, that sure was unfortunate,” Madison said, loud enough for you to hear.

…had they…?

“Indeed,” Jefferson said, equally as loud as he picked up his fallen tray and plate. “Shall we fetch new plates?”

“Let’s do,” Madison said. He glanced in your direction. Offered you an encouraging smile…the same smile you always offered him.

Jefferson glanced in your direction for the smallest moment…but the look in his eyes was enough. That glimmer of support.

They HAD.

You rushed out of the dining hall, your chest suddenly tight, suddenly needing to get away.

***

You received three messages that afternoon.

One was from Lafayette, expressing concern over your abrupt departure from the dining hall. You apologized, but offered no explanation.

One was form Hercules. More of the same as Lafayette had sent. But he also asked if you were still good to meet him in the design studio later that afternoon for a final fitting. (You were to be the “model” for the final garment he was designing for one of his classes. It would be “displayed” by you wearing it at the upcoming Winter Ball – “because all beautiful gowns should have an occasion behind them” was his professor’s reasoning.) You said yes, that was fine, but you may run a little late with your theatre class.

The last message was from Aaron. The two of you had a “one-on-one” with the professor for the scene you would perform for your final class. Did you want to meet him beforehand and run through lines really quick? No, that was okay, you would just see him there.

***

Professor George Dreyer was, appropriately, a dramatic man. His unofficial nickname around campus was “King George”, because he was the theatre alumnus from campus with the most clout to his name as an actor. He had the most prestigious credits. He’d also studied at LAMDA and performed on West End long enough for him to keep a slight British tinge to everything he said.

He could be a bit standoffish at times – you still laughed at the memory of some of the faces Aaron made upon first meeting Professor Dreyer – but he knew what he was talking about when it came to acting.

“So, to begin…” Professor Dreyer clapped his hands together. “Just run the scene. Show me what you have, and we will work from there.”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen the scene, or any of the scenes the class was working. This was just the first time he was seeing it alone. And the first time neither you nor Aaron were using your scripts.

The scene was from a play called “Suddenly Last Summer”, by Tennessee Williams. Aaron was Doctor Cukrowicz, and you were Catharine, a young woman traumatized by something that happened in the past.

In all the time you’d rehearsed the scene, the repeated critique from Professor Dreyer was that he was not believing you – believing how broken your Catharine was. This time, however…

You closed your eyes, and willed your hands to stop shaking, as you and Aaron stood offstage, prepared to enter.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked quietly.

“Fine, just getting into character,” you whispered back, as Professor Dreyer called for the scene to start.

It began as it usually had, no hitches, Aaron acting appropriately clinical yet sympathetic, and you insisting that you were still sane. You felt yourself falter a little at your response to Aaron’s question (about your feelings towards your cousin):

“He liked me, and so I loved him.”

In other context, it felt apt. Painfully apt.

A short while after, when Aaron’s doctor asked, “Your life doesn’t see real to you?”…

…something clicked inside.

“Suddenly last winter I began to write my journal in the third person,” you said dully, having frozen a bit onstage. Aaron took your arm gently and led you towards a nearby chair.

“Something happened last winter?” his doctor asked.

Something happened THIS winter, you thought.

You began the monologue, Catharine’s recalling of a Mardi Gras ball, when a man she’d never met escorted her home. But before getting home, he stopped somewhere else first. What for? It was never outright stated, only implied (like with a lot of Tennessee Williams’ works, implications of the darker material to get past censors). If it was consensual or forced.

“…he didn’t answer, just struck a match in the car to light a cigarette in the car and I looked at him in the car…” You voice faded off the slightest bit before you broke into a laugh that was not a laugh. “…and I knew what for.”

You’d never fully understood what Catharine meant until that very moment – how used and ugly she must have felt until the man brought her back home and told her to forget what happened, because his wife was pregnant. How she sat at home in shock for a while before calling a cab to take her back to the Mardi Gras ball. You stood from the chair, swept up in the tale, in your own memories, your own dirty memories…

“…I’d gone back to make a scene on the floor of that ballroom,” you said manically. “Yes, I didn’t stop at the cloakroom to pick up Aunt Violet’s old mink stole.” You broke off with another laughless laugh for a minute before raising your hands, your shaking hands, saw his face in your mind, him standing in that ballroom, laughing at what he’d gotten away with. “No, I rushed right into the ballroom and spotted him on the floor—” You balled your hands and struck an invisible force over and over again. “—and ran RIGHT up to him and BEAT HIM as HARD IN THE FACE AND THE CHEST WITH MY FISTS…until…”

Your fists lowered shakily, the reverie broken slightly as you tried to regain composure, continue the scene. You – your character – looked over at Aaron – the doctor. Was his concern the doctor’s concern for Catharine, or his own concern for you?

You moved to sit back down in the chair across from his as you told about the short aftermath of the ballroom fiasco, how your character’s cousin told her to get up and go with him. “Well…if you’re still alive after dying, well then, you’re obedient, Doctor.” You got up, per your cousin’s instructions. Referenced the third person journal again, began to recite from it, stopping to clarify for the doctor who “she” was.

You.

She was taking a brief walk, meaning YOU were taking a brief walk. And as you described the walk, you paced back and forth, paces quicker and quicker as you grew more and more harried.

“…as if pursued by a pack of Siberian wolves!” you cackled. “Went right through all those stop signs – couldn’t wait for green signals – Where did she THINK she was GOING? BACK TO THE DUELLING OAKS? EVERYTHING CHILLY AND DIM BUT HIS HOT, RAVENOUS MOUTH ON HER–!”

At “his hot, ravenous mouth”, your hands palmed your breasts unconsciously, as you remembered. Only for that short moment before your hands moved to cover your face as you fought the urge to cry.

Your tirade had been cut off twofold – by your wave of emotion, and by the doctor jumping up and saying your name: “Miss Catharine!”

As Aaron walked you back to the chair to help you sit down, he asked so quietly you thought you’d imagined it, “Are you okay?”

“Keep going,” you managed to whisper back.

“Miss Catharine, let me give you something,” Aaron continued the scene, the faintest hint of skepticism in his voice. As he moved to pick up his medical bag, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket (because, of course, Aaron Burr was the type of person who carried handkerchiefs) and gave it to you.

“Do I have to have the injection again, this time?” you asked as you dabbed away loose tears with the handkerchief. The scene carried on with an “injection” being administered with a prop syringe, and some sort of drug taking effect.

By this time, your tears had ebbed. You felt slightly emptied, and a little punch-drunk. From what, you didn’t know, but it certainly helped with the scene, as Catharine was supposed to be feeling “funny” as a result of the drug.

Aaron’s words faded in and out, his doctor asking you to give him “all your resistance” to whatever the truth was. You accusing him of hypnotizing you. Placing your hand in his, to pass all your resistance to the truth over to him.

“No lies, nothing not spoken,” Aaron’s doctor instructed. “Everything told, exactly.”

“Everything. Exactly. Because I’ll have to.” A slight, desperate tinge to your voice.

Then called for your character to stand up. Become overwhelmed with dizziness. The doctor to catch you. As your knees crumpled, Aaron’s arms were around you in an instant, and you giggled madly as you clung to him, trying to right your feet.

“You see, you lost your balance,” Aaron said with a slight chuckle, his hands moving to your waist as you found you footing.

“No, I didn’t,” you continued to giggle, your arms still around him, around his neck. You leaned in close, as though to tell him a secret. “I did what I wanted to without you telling me to!” Your giggle faded away as Aaron gauged the closeness between your bodies, tried to back away as you clung tighter to him, pleading: “Let me! Let me, let me, let me, oh, PLEASE, let me! Let me—”

Every previous time you’d run this scene, you’d never “crushed [your] mouth to his”, as the script called for. The two of you had worked out the best angle onstage to make it LOOK as though a kiss were happening, with no kiss actually occurring.

But everything had snapped in you. Too many things.

And your lips were on Aaron’s.

You felt him freeze beneath your hands. You held his head tight, keeping his mouth against yours, and moved your other hand down to find one of his, in a desperation of sort you didn’t fully understand, but was telling you you NEEDED this, to move his hand to cup your breast, to see if it could feel good, if such a touch could EVER feel good, if it could feel different from HIS hand, HIS touch, HIS mouth compared to—

You pulled away from the kiss and half-collapsed against Aaron, sobbing into his shoulder. He did not move, save to remove his hand from your chest.

“Please hold me!” you cried. “It’s lonelier than death, if I’ve gone mad, it’s lonelier than death!”

The only sound in the theatre, for the longest time, was your muffled sobbing. It was supposed to be the button for the scene – your weeping against the doctor, unsure of how best to comfort you without overstepping boundaries between doctor and patient.

The doctor melted away from Aaron this time, evidently too overcome by what you had done, what state you were in. And his arms hesitantly went around your waist as you clung tighter to him.

A quiet “okay” from Professor Dreyer broke the spell. You pulled away from Aaron quickly, everything you’d just done in the scene…what you’d done to Aaron…hitting you full force.

“I’m sorry Aaron I’m sorry I’m so sorry I did that I shouldn’t have—” you whispered frantically.

“Shh shh shh.” He hugged you again, patting your back, trying to soothe you. You pulled away because, FUCK, did you not deserve that. You wiped away all tears from your face and tried to compose yourself as Professor Dreyer approached you, quietly saying your name, asking if you were okay.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m sorry,” you said. “I just…”

How could you explain?

“It’s been a shit week.”

Professor Dreyer wasn’t entirely convinced, you could tell, but let it slide.

“So…that’s definitely the most invested you’ve been in the scene,” he said, giving you the understatement of the century. “I believed your Catharine. Just…for your own sake, make sure you don’t become TOO lost in her. I’d rather have a hard time believing it than see one of my student genuinely hurting as much as you appeared to be hurting.” You nodded. “I’ll let you go – go get some rest, don’t worry about the scene, you and Aaron have more than enough time to go over things again before final performance. I’ll give him whatever notes I have left and he can pass necessary one to you.” You nodded again. “And hey, if you ever need to talk, you know we’ve got some great counselors on campus. Or if you’d rather talk to a familiar face, I can always—”

“Thank you, Professor,” you cut off this familiar schpiel, “but that won’t be necessary.”

“Okay. But do take care of yourself.” You nodded again.

As you gathered your things for class and mentally put yourself together again, Professor Dreyer and Aaron spoke softly on the stage. You left the theatre without goodbyes and quickly ducked into the bathroom in the lobby. After splashing some cold water on to your face, your head felt a bit clearer.

As you walked back into the lobby, Aaron was still there. He approached you to speak.

“I just wanted to make sure you were really okay,” he said. “I mean…that was…”

You didn’t blame him for not having words.

“I’m sorry again,” you said. “I should not have made you—”

“It’s okay.” Even though it really wasn’t. “Just…maybe warn me if you’re going to do that again?”

“I won’t. Promise.”

“Okay.”

An uncomfortable silence.

“Something…happened recently,” you said before thinking about what you were saying. “And I’m having a hard time coping. And I’m just…really confused as a result. About things. And…”

Your words died.

“Well…maybe talking about it would help. Not to me, necessarily but—”

“Are you seriously telling me to talk more?” you blurted out. “You? Mister ‘talk less, smile more’, always giving that nugget of wisdom to Alexander?”

“In this case, yes,” Aaron said calmly. “When I tell Hamilton that, it’s in a completely different context. With him, it’s about opinions. On just about everything. But right now…” He stepped a little closer. “If something is eating away at you, hurting you…if you keep that bottled up, let it fester, it’s not healthy. Talking through feelings is not a bad thing.”

He had a point. It was the same point everyone was trying to make, but coming from him…somehow, it just hit harder.

“Is whatever happened to you…related to the other night at the Schuylers?” Aaron asked. “Whatever made you upset there?” You nodded. “Was it anyone there?” You shook your head.

“Why do you care so much, Aaron?”

“I’ve been your doctor of sorts these past few weeks,” he said with a slight sardonic air. “Do I not have the right to worry about my acting partner and friend?”

You said nothing.

“Whatever happened to you, I’m sorry,” Aaron said after a time. “And I hope you find a way to cope.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a look that, for some reason, shook you to your core. And he left you standing in the lobby feeling confused, helpless, and still sickened with yourself.

***

You walked out from behind the changing screen in the gown Hercules had been designing for weeks. It was a pretty deep purple affair, with a fitted bodice, a just-off-the-shoulder neckline, and a skirt that JUST billowed out for a bell-like effect, but flowed beautifully as you walked.

“Nice dress,” Hercules commented casually from his designers’ table as you walked towards him.

“Thanks, it has pockets,” you said, sticking your hands in said pockets as you walked.

“Every good dress should,” Hercules said as he held a hand out. You took it and stepped on to a nearby stool, giving you a bit of height over him.

“Jeez, everything looks so small from up here,” you joked. “How do you deal with it every day?”

“What? Lording it over all you tiny peasants?” Hercules played along as he inspected the hem of the dress.

“Exactly.”

“How does the dress feel?” Hercules asked, moving to another angle. “Uncomfortable in any way?”

“Not really,” you said, shifting. That caused Hercules to give you a disbelieving look. “That didn’t mean this dress in uncomfortable. I just don’t wear dresses a lot; have to get used to it again. For the Winter Ball, anyway.”

“Okay…but I’ve got my eye on you…”

“You’re supposed to – to make sure your dress gets a good grade.”

“God, the sass with you. Why did I choose you for a model?”

“Beats me; I told you not to.”

“Hmm.”

He helped you off the stool, back down to the floor.

“Hem looks even,” he decided. “Not too short, but not so long you’re gonna be tripping over it while you dance.”

“Who said anything about DANCING?” you asked him as he took a tape measure and began holding it here and there.

“I think Lafayette was gonna ask you to accompany him,” Hercules said distractedly as he made some notes to himself.

“…I thought all of us were just gonna go as a big group, no couples.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He was staring at something. In the region of the bodice.

“…may need to make some adjustments,” he muttered to himself, reaching for some pins. He paused. “I’m gonna have to work around your…” He gestured towards your chest. “…for a minute. That okay?”

You took in a deep breath, and hoped he hadn’t noticed too much.

“That’s fine, I—”

You stopped yourself.

You wanted to say “I trust you”.

That’s what you’d said to HIM before guiding his hands under your shirt.

Look how well THAT had turned out.

“…what?” Hercules asked.

“…never mind,” you finally said. “You’ve never tried to cop a feel before. I doubt you’d try now.”

“Certainly wouldn’t,” Hercules said, picking up a needle threaded with purple. “You’d destroy this dress and I’d fail.”

“Not necessarily,” you said, looking away as Hercules began his stitch work on the bodice.

He’d been debating with himself for months on sewing some patterns into the bodice that could only be noticed upon very close inspection. His worry was that the stitch work would pop upon you putting the gown on.

So maybe he was doing a little bit of that. Maybe he was tightening the gown another littlest bit for a better fit. You weren’t really sure, and you weren’t going to look. You just closed your eyes and tried to focus on something else.

“So, did Lafayette give a concrete reason for wanting to take me to the ball?” you asked. “He doesn’t have a crush on me, does he?”

“Just that same platonic crush he has on all of us,” Hercules said in the muffled way he did when he had pins between his lips. “But nah, I think he just…don’t hate me for bringing it up.” You winced. “I think after whatever happened with…that guy…he wanted you to show up at the ball and have the best time, with the best-looking guy on your arm.”

“I don’t even know if I want to go,” you breathed. Hercules tugged at the dress accidentally. “I mean, I still will, for your grade, but…any other time, I am just…not up for it.”

“And that’s why Lafayette wants to take you. Or if not take you, hog you for a good bit of the night.” The silence of sewing passed for a moment. “But also, if…he was there, with his new girl…good way to make ‘em jealous, he thought.”

You wanted to laugh. And cry.

“Well, he IS Lafayette,” you said, as jokingly as you could muster. “All the ladies want him…and so do the guys.” Hercules gave a muffled, struggled snort.

“You’re gonna make me spit pins everywhere.”

“Good.”

***

You stood in the midst of the Winter Ball, as still as you could, as Hercules’ professor admired the gown he’d made and how it fit you.

While the idea behind the gown was to make it fit for an occasion that called for movement (read: could you dance in it), the professor still wanted to pore over some of the finer details the dress had to offer.

You looked around at the room where all the dancing was happening around you. Angelica, Peggy and Laurens were on one end of the room, laughing over cups of punch. A little ways away from them were Alexander and Eliza, Alex’s lips at Eliza’s ear. He was whispering something sweet, no doubt, given the way Eliza blushed as Alex kissed her hand. Thomas Jefferson was on the opposite side, in an all-magenta suit that one of Hercules’ classmates had designed in class. Somehow, Jefferson made it look wearable, and not ridiculous. He was with some girl you didn’t know, the two of them doing some groovy little shimmy move that you couldn’t help but smile at. Aaron and his girlfriend, Theodosia, strolled by them, Theodosia masking a smile (probably at the loudness of Jefferson’s suit). Aaron noticed you, even from so far away, and smiled and nodded. You quickly turned your head away from him, unsure if you could ever look him in the eye again after what you did to him during the scene.

“Well, it’s a lovely gown,” Hercules’s professor said. “And it looks so well on your model.”

“Thank you, professor,” Hercules said, beaming. “Really, this gown wouldn’t look half as good on anyone else.”

“Agreed, mon ami.”

You jumped as Lafayette appears from behind your shoulder.

“She is la belle of this ball,” Lafayette said, picking up your hand to kiss it. “And if you are done, she has promised me many dances.”

“That’s just fine,” the professor said. “I’d love to see how the gown moves as she does.”

“Come, mon cherie,” Lafayette said, still holding your hand and leading you to the dance floor with a smile.

“You are too charming for your own good, Lafayette,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I thank you for your kind words, cherie.”

“Really, you don’t need to go above and beyond to try and flatter me or…make me feel better or whatever.”

“Then can I not flatter you because I want to?”

He had that puppy-dog look in his eyes that made it impossible to be too frustrated with him.

“Just don’t overdo it,” you finally said. A new song began to play.

“Ah, I know this one,” Lafayette said with a smile, offering his hand to you with a little bow. “Mademoiselle…shall we?”

“Fine, ya big doof,” you said, taking his hand as he pulled you in for that traditional waltz position – one hand at your waist, the other holding yours as you swayed back and forth.

“Somewhere…beyond the sea…” the singer crooned. Lafayette’s face fell.

“This is not ‘La Mer’,” he said. “Well, it IS ‘La Mer’, but not.”

“No, it’s not, it’s ‘Beyond the Sea’,” you said.

“Oui, it is BEYOND ‘La Mer’.”

“No, that’s the name of the song, Lafayette.”

“Oh.”

He listened to the words for a bit.

“The French is better.”

“You’re biased in that regard, Lafayette.”

“You do not believe me?”

“To be honest, I don’t really care,” you said. “I like the singer’s voice, and I like the swinginess of the beat.” Lafayette twirled you before pulling you back in, his cheek resting against yours.

“Voyez, près des étangs,” Lafayette sang in your ear, “ces grands roseaux mouillés.”

“Oh my god, you’re such an insistent little dork.”

“Voyez, ces oiseaux blancs et ces maisons rouillées.”

“Fine, you win, it’s better in French.”

“Merci, mon cherie.”

As the instrumental break in the song kicked in, you two danced in relative silence.

“I have not seen him tonight,” Lafayette said after a time. You tensed in Lafayette’s arms, and pulled away from his cheek to look at him. “I am sorry for bringing it up, but I thought you should know. In case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t,” you said shortly. “I was trying not to think about it.”

“Well…” Lafayette paused. “We had a…what do you call it…game plan. Should we see him, and should he try anything. All of us. Our own little courses of action.”

“Hercules said you asked me to make him jealous.”

“That may be…some of the truth, but not all of it. It was also to keep you away from him, should he have shown his face. Distract you.”

“With your charm?”

“Perhaps.”

“And your voice?”

“Do I have a nice one?”

“…I don’t hate you serenading me in French, no.”

Lafayette pressed his cheek to yours once more, to sing softly in your ear again.

“La mer les a bercés le long des golfes clairs…”

You closed your eyes and nestled your head against Lafayette’s shoulder and listened to him croon:

“…et d'une chanson d'amour, la mer a bercé mon cœur pour la vie.”

If a few tears loosened and fell on to the fabric of his coat, he said nothing. And if you felt his lips press against your forehead, you said nothing.

You felt something buzz.

“…is that a phone in your pocket, or are you just really happy to be dancing with me?” you asked Lafayette.

“Non, it is not my phone,” he giggled into your hair. You pulled away, still feeling the buzz against you.

“Oh, it’s my phone!” you realized. “That’s right, this dress has pockets!”

“Oui, it does, you would not shut up about them for the longest time,” Lafayette said, watching you. “I am going to go get some of the awful punch. Would you like some awful punch?”

“I would adore some awful punch,” you said as you took your phone out of your pocket. “Le thank you.”

“That is not how you say ‘thank you’ in French, and you know this.”

“Le bite me.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too.”

“I regret that you’ve watched ‘The Thing’, because you are NEVER gonna stop using that quote.”

“Non.”

“Go get some awful punch, dork.”

“Right away, mon cherie.”

He blew you a kiss as he walked away. You rolled your eyes at his antics and checked your phone.

It was a text from Eliza.

“you look so happy tonight”

You looked up in the direction where she and Alexander had been standing earlier. They were still there. Noticing that you were looking over, she waved and smiled that beaming smile that lit up whatever room she was in. Alexander looked over at where she was waving, and saw you. He hesitantly smiled at you as well, giving a smaller wave. Probably hesitant with your being mad at him.

What could you do but wave and smile back at Eliza? Her happiness was damningly infectious at times. She was always so positive and grateful. It was of the first things you learned about her all those years ago when you’d first met her. Going to a first college party, and her taking everything in and saying “How lucky we are to be alive right now.”

You thought of your character Catharine, and her third-person journal. The snippets she shared with the good doctor. “She’s still living…meaning I was. What’s next for her? God knows.”

As she turned back to Alex to talk to him, you looked over everyone you’d seen again. The whole little squad. You mulled over Aaron’s words again – his advice to “talk more, smile less”, as it were. To not push people away who just wanted to help.

Maybe you would have a long talk with Eliza, just to get everything out…to open up. Maybe you would take Angelica up on that offer to watch “Hard Candy”. Maybe you would forgive Alexander. Maybe you would send Thomas a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese as a thank you. Maybe you would seek out a counselor of sorts –Professor Washington, Professor Dreyer, one of the on-campus counselors, someone else entirely…

Maybe you would find someone you wanted. Maybe you wouldn’t.

Too many maybes.

Too much to think about in such a setting.

For now, you just sent Eliza a reply:

“thank you”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome and appreciated.


End file.
